A Lighter Look At Life: A walk down Scutter Street

This is Tumbleweed Terrace, twinned with Domestos and dubbed the worst street in the UK by Channel 4

I waited for the rage within obese, shell-suited Wayne to subside, then asked diplomatically: “Didn’t the title of the TV series – Scutters Street – suggest you and fellow residents of Tumbleweed Terrace may not be portrayed in an altogether positive light?”

Wayne threw down the thick slice of Hawaiian pizza, delivered only a minute earlier by Domino’s, and demanded: “Whatdyamean?”

His partner, mother-of-seven Donna, stormed into the room and demanded: “Whatdyamean?”, the infant hanging on grimly as her pendulant left breast swayed in a show of righteous indignation.

“Listen, mate,” she shrieked, “Wayne may have had a drugs habit, he may have been sent to prison on a technicality...

“Technicality?” I probed.

“The technicality being that he didn’t own the loft space where the cannabis plants were growing, the housing association did.”

She dragged the screaming baby from her bosom and put it on the sofa in a fit of pique before continuing: “He may have been filmed winning the Small Heath limbo championships while claiming disability benefit for a bad back, he may have an electronic tag on his leg, he may have Chinese letters on his neck that we thought spelt “Donna my eternal flame” , but in fact means ‘may contain nuts’ in Cantonese, but he can do things politicians, doctors, police officers and all those other so called professionals can’t.”

“Such as?” I quizzed.

“Rolling a spliff while at the wheel of our Ford Mondeo,” Donna said proudly, “and he’s on Candy Crush Butterscotch Boulders.

“You’re a dab hand at DIY, aren’t you, Wayne? Even the judge described the hydroponics in our roof space as a highly-professional operation.”

“And he had that electronic tag,” she shrieked, pointing to her partner’s leg, “playing Jingle Bells on Christmas Day.”

Donna collapsed on the sofa and sobbed uncontrollably. “I don’t need this – I am a mother of seven,” she mouthed, “all named Wayne.”

I cast a puzzled glance at the plump mum. “Isn’t that rather confusing? I mean, what happens when you want to call them for dinner?”

“I use their surnames,” said Donna.

This is Tumbleweed Terrace, twinned with Domestos and dubbed the worst street in the UK by Channel 4: Birmingham’s concrete underbelly frequented by drunks, drug users, pimps, prostitutes, criminals, ex-criminals, welfare cheats, illegal immigrants, dangerous dogs and people in offensive shell-suits who spit on pavements.

“We’re not all criminals,” protested Wayne while tenderly feeding his four-foot pet python, Monty, cheesy Wotsits. “There was that bloke who was here two months ago...very polite, smartly dressed.”

“He was a Jehovah’s Witness,” laughed Donna. “Remember, Wayne III mugged him for his stash of Watchtowers.”

A mental light bulb flashed above Wayne Snr’s head. “That’s right. Could we shift them at the car boot sale? Could we bollo...”

“He said there’s more pressing legal issues – like an application to get the tag removed before Britney’s christening booze-up. But he’s sure that Channel 4 would’ve definitely destroyed my reputation if I had a reputation to destroy. If I hadn’t nicked that Poppy Day collection box, we’d be looking at millions.

“Let me tell you,” he barked, “no one loves their kids more than...”

His partner interrupted the heated interview, her ruddy face etched with concern, to ask: “Where’s Wayne VI – he’s been missing for hours?”

“Gone to get another tattoo,” shrugged Wayne Snr, “before his SATs exams. He wants Miley Cyrus on his neck this time. Told him he’ll regret it when he’s older – she’ll be forgotten in five years.

“Should’ve taken my advice and gone for Elvis – the Vegas years.”

Donna shook her head and insisted: “I thought under 11-year-olds need a parent or guardian with them at tattoo parlours.”

Unfortunately for Wayne VI, the one thing the rag-tag residents of Tumbleweed Terrace have discovered they can’t steal are GCSEs.

I was tasked with interviewing the inhabitants of the Second City sink estate – a community torn by the hard-hitting documentary – and left with one burning question for householders: you were born with eight fingers and two thumbs – why do you need 27 sovereign rings?

Viewing the scores of heavily-pregnant chavettes gossiping on street corners underlined the desperate need for Burberry to manufacture condoms.

During my tour of the crumbling community, one elderly householder confided: “It’s a nightmare. I’ve had chavs knocking on my door, harassing me all hours of the day and night. Mind you, I suppose that goes with the territory if you’re the neighbourhood drug-dealer.”

“Why,” I pressed, “are there so many 12 and 13-year-olds on the street so late at night?”

“Probably robbed enough people to afford a babysitter,” said the toothless pensioner.

This is Tumbleweed Terrace – a parcel of Birmingham cast adrift by society. Until the camera crews descended, it was a blot on Britain’s landscape we’d rather ignore.

As I trudged, wearied by the stark evidence of what my city has become, an urchin accosted me clutching 10 identical ties he’d snatched from a market stall.

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